All Quiet on the Eastern Periphery
by ThisAccountKillsFascists
Summary: A rehashing of All Quiet on the Western Front, filled with the giant robots and other lore from the Battletech Universe. Unfinished, but plan to finish eventually! (Rated M for excessive violence, PTSD, and gore, it's a real war story)
1. Chapter 1

[Work in Progress!

Graphic content warning: If you've never thought about what would happen to a person if they were hit directly with even the smallest of mech lasers, well, I can tell you you'll experience it here! So a word of caution when reading if you're one of those sissy freebirth types. Ew.

This story is designed to be a take on the horrors of war inflicted on the First Wave of the Jade Falcon's initial invasion in the Lyran corridor - yes, it is a rehash of AQOTWF, and uses the first names of characters from the book itself, but that will likely be the only true similarity, the others being the psychological effects of warfare.]

Chapter One: The Calm Before the Storm

"-Bandits in the heroic defense of Steelton. The FedCom forces report similar victories against renegade factions all across the Eastern Periphery, securing peace and prosperity for the Lyran Commonwealth."

It had been awhile since he'd heard a broadcast about the Periphery, but Paul Brett remembered them well. It wasn't atypical for a young man his age to have heard several of the propagandist messages sent throughout the Federated Commonwealth, promoting the armed forces of the combined Steiner-Davion alliance, and the overall well-being of the Lyran peoples.

Paul could still remember his earlier days at the academy, how Albert would gawk at their professor's insistence that to fight for the Lyran worlds was the sworn duty of their generation. Paul was never much to fall for this sort of thinking, but he had to admit, it felt good to be doing something for his people.

Boot camp for the 17th Skye Rangers had not been so glorious, however. Remembering the days of being worn down to the bone with exercise and training, the terrible food, all of the other soldiers and their various trans-unit politicking... He was glad to be out of there for good. It hadn't been too pleasant an experience for him, several off-worlder Davion loyalists had somehow found their way into the 16th Skye barracks, and they had not treated the small, fair-haired young man as though he were anything more than a total pushover. They insisted of course, that these Lyran soldiers were nothing like the tough, rugged Federated Suns soldier, that back on their homeworlds, there were all sorts of war stories of men taking down opponents ten-to-one.

Paul never bought it for a second.

He would have kept on reminiscing, but a heavy hand knocked right up against his helmet, jarring his brain and making him clutch his rifle with white knuckle force. The owner of the hand was, of course, Private Albert Krass. The larger, more broad-shouldered boy was grinning and had his own rifle shouldered, the light from a hanging lamp outside the doorway of a supply office glinting off of the silvered markings on his uniform.

"I said, what's for dinner today, dumkopf? I swear sometimes your head's so far up your own arse the minute a Bandit shows up we're both done for."

Paul grimaced and looked over his shoulder at the other Private.

"Like I would know. Probably more slop, same as always. It's not like the food's ever been gourmet."

Their marching line turned the corner passed the 14th Company's barracks, and for a moment, a tinge of vertigo persisted in Paul's head as a JumpShip's takeoff a couple hundred meters in front of him over the edge of the buildings made him remember what the experience had been like for him, getting hauled all the way to the front lines of the Periphery on Barcelona, but he wasn't sure if it was the memory of the long, nauseating trip or the fact he'd been smacked in the back of the head so hard by his friend.

Barcelona was a place too cold for Paul's tastes, after all, growing up on Summer made one into a human whom preferred a warmer climate. Considering the name of the planet, he wasn't surprised to find his first offworld trip unpleasant in this exact nature. The troops of the 4th Platoon took another turn, and the Sergeant ordered a full halt. Paul's boots made an audible noise as his heels snapped together at attention.

"I expect you back in your quarters at eighteen hundred, understood?" barked the officer, the last word spoken close enough to the Private's ear that he flinched slightly at the volume.

"Sir, yes sir!" he immediately chimed with the rest of the Platoon, before they were ordered at ease and allowed to enter the mess hall before them. He was relieved to stop feeling so tense. Of course, Albert shouldered right passed him to grab a good seat before they were all taken. It wasn't to Paul's surprise that there was more than adequate room, and the troops ended up spread losely about the place which could easily seat another two or three Platoons. In fact, there were clustered groups from the 13th Regiment, 2nd Platoon, though he wondered why they didn't number nearly as many as the rest of his own Platoon. Many of the more grizzled looking 2nd Platoon members eyed their younger counterparts with a look of contempt, and he attempted to avoid their gaze whenever possible. It wasn't long before Albert had gone and come back, sloshing a bowl of soup down before Paul loudly, some of the contents of the bowl pouring onto the table as the surface of the liquid protested Albert's assault. Paul jumped once more as he was dragged out of his own world of deep thought.

His partner in crime eyed him suspiciously.

"You alright? Your head ain't nearly in the game as much as usual."

It was true, he felt distracted by all the goings-on that there was only one thing on his mind: they were trained soldiers, which meant they were here to fight. He could only assume this is exactly why the 13th's 2nd soldiers were less in number, and appeared xenophobic. The prospect was daunting.

Just then, one of their other former classmates from Summer joined them, a tall, thin lad by the name of Muller, and another, Lehr, who's stupid grin didn't suprise Paul one bit. Muller plopped down and nearly caused a second round of soup storms, due to the rickety metal bench which Paul could only assume hadn't been replaced since the first Secession Wars. He clutched the bowl and held it aloft instead, though the speed this required only meant he burned a finger instead.

"How are you drekheads doing?" Lehr inquired enthusiastically, his lopsided smile beaming at each of the other soldiers in turn. Paul just sipped his soup, prompting a chuckle from Albert.

"Paul here's turned into a regular spacecase," he mentioned to Lehr, who glanced at him sidelong before dipping a piece of bread into his own bowl and biting at it, before using it to point back at Albert with vigor.

"Hey, ol' Pauly here's not the one who lost the footrace to a dirty Davion," he mentioned, which drew a nice long 'oooh' from Muller, who then laughed and clapped an arm around Albert and shook him a bit while the latter made a face.

"Ah don't worry, he's just jealous of your math skills, Al. One day when he's missin' his calculations on those mortars, and gets stomped on by a Commando, he'll be remembering this moment."

Paul's face grew pale at the prospect of fighting against even the lightest of Battlemechs in the future. Of course, Lehr took note, and was ready to change the topic in his own interest in any case.

"Say, so you guys heard yet? Apparently, there's some gorgeous women in 2nd Company, eh? What you guys think, maybe wet your whistles? Play the field?" He was looking at Muller, who grumbled and rolled his eyes.

"What's it to you anyway, Lehr? It's not like these battle hardened babes are goin' to take a look at how soft you are and want a piece."

Always quick with the crack, Lehr just grinned.

"Still upset over Karina, huh?" he asked rhetorically, referring to an attempted romance the Private opposite him had failed to pull off. That silenced Muller for a moment while Albert slurped loudly at his soup. Paul only sighed softly.

"Hey, Pauly, why don't you go get some more bread for the table, huh? We sure could use it."

Paul nodded, glad to have a chance to distance himself from the high spirits of his comrades. He placed his hands on the table, and stood up. It was only a few more seconds before he was in line at the sundries table, scooting forward each time a soldier loaded up on bread, juice, or utensils. He was only five or six Privates away when a voice spoke softly behind him.

"New kid, huh?" it asked, gruff and deep.

Paul looked over his shoulder, only to find an older-looking Sergeant, probably in his fourties. The man looked unamused by the rest of the soldier's jovial conversation, same as he did, and for a moment, Paul faltered under his gaze, before he swallowed and spoke up.

"Just arrived today," he mentioned, sounding like a child in a playpen rather than the member of an elite company of soldiers.

"You'll do fine," he said simply, before reaching around the lad to grab a few pieces of bread and a napkin. He brushed passed Paul carefully, leaving him feeling oddly better than he had been just a moment before. Taking one of the almost-empty baskets of bread for the table, he moved back over and placed in the middle of the other three, Albert noticing his face had lost it's tension, and reached over to toss a piece of the bread back at Paul with a grin.

"Eat up, we got runs tomorrow."

The rest of his meal Paul spent loosely conversing with his platoon mates, before a small automated chime denoted it was about time they started filtering back to the barracks. He excused himself to use the restroom, and whilst he did so, he had only used it as a ploy to allow himself to walk back alone. Hands in his pockets, he left the smell of the food behind, and headed down the lanes toward the barracks the 4th Platoon had been assigned. But as he passed an administrative annex, the line of buildings broke, opening up to a large, towered gate which was open as a Raven stepped through. For a moment, he gawked at the size of it, but his hands left his pockets and he was further disarmed by the rolling landscape beyond.

It stretched before him, daunting in it's brevity, and in the distance, a faint orange glow marked the oozing of lava floes from a far-off volcano. What made it worse, though, was the wreckage, as even in the distance and the fading light from the recent sunset, he could still make out the carcasses of tanks and other ground vehicles scattered about the lower-lying area just beyond the base. Not all of them were Bandit, as many were facing away from the base itself. Bringing his gaze back, however, brought some solace, as he eyed the defensive fortifications likely responsible for the destruction just on the other side; there were long, thin trenches with battlements and barbed wire, and he could spot some units on patrol just before the gate slowly moved upward and blocked his line of sight.

It took him a second to start moving again.

Finding his bed, and ignoring the playful banter of the bunking soldiers, it wasn't long before his stress gave way to exhaustion, and he fell prey to the one you never see coming. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Day of Days

Paul woke from a cold sweat, he couldn't forget the time he'd spent the day before pondering, wondering about the fires, the fires to come. Paul felt starved of oxygen, he gasped as he awoke to a dark barracks. Calming himself, he heard the light chatter of two others who must've awoken in similar circumstances, but paid them no heed as he wrapped his arms around his head to rest it on his hands. He stared at the bunk above him, Tjaiden's bunk. His mate, he knew, was an unfortunate situation; Tjaiden, back in bootcamp, had been scared so deeply by the prospect of battle, training, and dealing with the drillmasters, that he had wet the bed on two occasions: first after their intense run to the nearby mountaintop on a full stomach, which, he was certain, caused everyone to vomit... and the second, he was sure, was from war nerves as opposed to the almost torturous events provoked by the drillers. There was a third, but Paul didn't account for it; he knew it was because of a night of heavy drinking. But as he lie awake, staring at the unstained, pristine underside of Tjaiden's bunk, he noted that it was a possibility that it might happen again.

Paul rolled out of bed rather than continue along such a corridor of thought, he was determined instead to ready himself for the day ahead, fooling with his clothing in his footlocker.

The two others whom had awoken in the wee hours of the morning as Paul had, he soon identified. Kimrich, a young man he'd known most of his life, in fact, and Brem, the pudgiest soldier he'd ever laid eyes on. In Paul's mind, Brem had performed a miracle getting through Basic, the other was so fat, he was sure, that there was no way he could move in time to get into cover... But his thoughts wandered, if Brem managed, in the future, to get to cover, well... He would perform the second miracle he'd seen the man commit. It wouldn't be the first time that the brown-haired, blue-eyed chubby man had surprised Paul.

Lost in his thoughts, the Private hadn't even thought to check the time. When a whole hour had passed, the door to the living quarters of the barracks flung open. The perpetrator was none other than Sergeant Ulrich, who's rough entrance had already awoken several of the inhabitants of the building. But as if that was not enough, he endeavored to press his fist to his own mouth, so as to amplify his own sound, and created an ad-hoc bugle, through which he trumpeted the tune of awakening Paul had heard over a hundred times in boot camp.

Soldiers scrambled to their feet in their light clothing, many more articles were tossed over shoulders as certain unprepared men readied themselves. Paul, in the wake of it all, could only chuckle to himself at the display; Ulrich moved between those whom were still sleeping in order to hand-bugle the same tone straight into the ears of those who hadn't gotten the message yet.

Soldiers scrambled to their feet in their light clothing, many more articles were tossed over shoulders as certain unprepared men readied themselves. Paul, in the wake of it all, could only chuckle to himself at the display; Ulrich moved between those whom were still sleeping in order to hand-bugle the same tone straight into the ears of those who hadn't gotten the message yet. Each one, in turn, woke with a start, bloodshot eyes and all, and again the humor hit Paul, as he realized what their time in the barracks of bootcamp had prepared them for.

"Alright, you ingrates," Sergeant Ulrich stated, the last word spoken with obvious affection, "It's time we get you out to the lines. Report for briefing at oh-four hundred hours, which gives you fourty minutes to get your sorry arses down the hall!"

The room was filled with the "sir, yessir!" chant, repeated more than a dozen times, but Paul simply smirked and remained silent. He was glad to have, essentially, woken before the "alarm clock" went off.

A few minutes later the very same morning, after a basic breakfast of plastic-like scrambled eggs and chewy hashbrowns, the soldiers of the Fourth combined their presence in the Briefing Room, where there lied an unexpected surprise for Paul.

The Sergeant whom he'd seen within the confines of the mess hall had appeared again, in front of their crowd, to tell them exactly what the situation was. He was just as tall as the Private remembered, the name on his breast pocket read "Katzinsky". He used a long, wooden stick in front of a holo-projected map. The first time the stick hit the canvas of the backdrop, Paul flinched slightly. The thick slap wasn't exactly pleasant to the ears, but everyone in the Platoon was present, he noted, as he glanced around. There were exactly the right amount of seats.

"Alright, you sorry excused for Skye's Rangers!" the man barked, and for some reason, his eyes situated on Paul's own, and for a moment, he felt awkward, even felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

"This is the situation. Long-range clear scanners have detected, in a radius of point two parsecs, a jump fleet of Bandits we can only guess range in the number of about fifty thousand-"

Paul's thoughts were filled with the image of a crowd of what he could only assume was less than five thousand, and suddenly, he felt nauseous again.

"Bandits which intend, we're sure by their trajectory, to land on this world. This will be your first live fire trial, let you all succeed and vanquish our foes." Here was where the Sergeant pressed a button on a hand-held remote, and the slide changed to show an aerial view of the campus they were currently situated in. The gate Paul had witnessed the day before was the strategic point of entry from a pair of mountain ranges.

"Our estimations tell us that at least one DropShip's worth will land just outside of our north eastern mountain range. You can expect, by our calculations based on the weight of the ship, to experience intense infantry combat supported by heavy vehicles and possibly up to two BattleMechs. Third Platoon and all of the Sixteenth Battalion will be supporting you on this mission to repel the Bandit invaders. Your post will be Charlie-Seven, here." He tapped the board with his pointer to indicated a series of trench networks to the east of the ones Paul had seen the night before, in a grid denoted as "C7." Bravo and Alpha coordinates were almost entirely composed of the base's assets. They were the rear guard on the right flank, so to speak.

"We have intel that the 1st Battlemech Platoon is on the way, expect reinforcements at Oh-Sixteen-Hundred hours."

Paul glanced at the holoclock on the wall. Six hundred. Twelve hours to go until mech reinforcement. His face paled again, and he hunched over, feelings of vertigo rushing about him. Twelve hours of hard fighting, potentially two battlemechs? Tanks, enemy troops? Even if they were just Bandits, the young man found himself in a world spinning, before the soldier next to him nudged his shoulder.

"Hey, you okay?" asked a black-haired male sitting beside him, his fatigues read "Detrig." Paul took two seconds to respond, composing himself, then nodded. He gazed back to the Sergeant, and listened, mostly unintently, as he concluded the briefing. By the end, Paul felt nowhere near as prepared as he had. They were organized back into their formation, and the order was given to march to the gate.

Two soldiers ahead of him was Albert Krop, his head placed on his shoulders so straight that Paul assumed any tension might snap it like dried clay. But still, the sight of his bootcamp friend put him at ease, at least somewhat. But when they finally, in full force, marched to the gate that he'd seen before today, the young man's mind raced with thoughts of fleeing. Running, deserting, becoming an outlaw, perhaps just to survive. Then Albert stepped forward in time with the rest of the unit, and he knew he had signed up for this too. Paul marched with the rest of his unit through the gate, and as the order was given to halt and turn right, they moved into position into their trenches. Today would be a long day.

As Paul noticed those ahead of him in the formation break it to take up position, he remembered Albert's words from the day before. Runs, he'd said, just boring, normal exercise, and yet here they were, rifles in hand, taking up trenches as the infantry which was notorious for getting crushed under the might of the Battlemech. Why had he signed up for this? His thoughts aside, their CO barked orders to spread out, and up ahead, just before he did so, he could see over the lip of the trench the other groups of units moving into position themselves. There were so many people, now that he could see it all from the steps into the trench, that again his resolve was bolstered.

"Brett! Get in position!"

Paul snapped out of it and hustled down the stairs, rushing passed Lehr in the process until he found an alcove cut into the trench with only one other soldier in it, and pressed himself into the tiny rounded outcropping, filling the rest of the space it offered. He leaned up against the trench wall, and noticed his Platoonmate staring at him, before he realized how quickly he was breathing, and quickly got it under control.

Ultimately, he had underestimated their detail's ease. It would be two whole hours before anything of note happened, most of the time they had just been waiting around, bored, all ears, the battleground was silent. Each soldier in turn was ordered to make a patrol along the bottom of the trench, running to the end and back, taking request for water, ammo, rifle cleaning kits, or the like. When it was Paul's turn, he took the opportunity to approach the bunker at the eastern entrance to their trench, and when he got inside, he found a lone soldier, piss drunk, bumbling to himself with a flask he could only assume had been hidden prior to this in hand. The pulse laser turret he had all but abandoned lie in the middle of the room, and the soldier, whom seemed rather excited to see him, greeted him as he entered with a slurred set of words.

Paul brushed off the greeting, and instead looked at the man with an expression of contempt. He knew what he was doing wrong, and as Paul expected, the man straightened up somewhat, becoming only slightly more aware.

"You're supposed to be at your post," Paul stated, motioning to the turret.

"I would'...ve. But'd ya know what that'd get me? A nice, big, hole in m'head! They go for the turr- turrests. They go for the guns..." He slumped onto a crate in the corner, frowning, eyes watering, and Paul grimaced.

"They go for anything that moves," he stated, the Private had already thought about this too much to have another soldier lose his nerve when he was on the field himself.

"Gimme that," he said, grasping the flask with the reflexes his smaller size offered him, and after taking a swig, he threw it right out the gun port of the front of the bunker, much to the other soldier's protest, before turning and rapping his helmet heavily. The berated soldier wobbled, and fixed his helmet.

"H-Hey, that wasn't yours!" he protested, and Paul glanced at him sidelong.

"To your post. Do you need water? Cleaning kits? Any supplies? Better speak up now."

"...W...Water's good..." the drunk soldier mumbled, and Paul nodded curtly.

"I'll be back with it. At your post."

He turned on his heel and left, his teeth grinding. How dare that man! They were ALL risking their lives! He finished his round, as the bunker was just before the end of the trench, and he reported to the logistics officer assigned to their detachment on the supplies requested. He started to hesitate, about to mention the drunken soldier, when he heard a sound, distant at first, which grew into a deep, low whistling. His eyes went wide together with the officer's, before the latter shouted.

"GET DOWN! TAKE COVER!"

He grabbed Paul by the shoulder and practically threw him behind a stack of crates, the small, young man landing breathless in the dust as the first shell impacted.

An explosion so immense that it rattled the ground cascaded through his ears, and he covered the back of his neck with his hands, wincing at the intensity. Dust blew around him, but he was unharmed, and he got up on his knees to peek over the crates as the second shell repeated the first's devastation. From his spot, he could see that the first shell had impacted directly onto the bunker he'd only just exited, the whole thing was collapsed and smoking, he knew it's inhabitant had no chance of being alive. As he looked for the second shell's hit, something behind him knocked the wind right out of him and shoved him straight into the boxes, forcing him to topple one and smash his cheek right into another.

Disoriented and confused, Paul wobbled to his feet, his vision blurred, and was grabbed again by the arm and tugged in a direction unknown to him. Somebody was saying... Something, and it took a few seconds for him to realize he couldn't hear due to the loudness of the impact he'd just endured.

"-ett! Brett! Are you with us?!" he finally deciphered, clutching one hand to his throbbing temple. Where was his helmet? He felt something wet, looked at his hand. It was red, but he was okay.

"Y...Yes," he managed, then looked up, noticing Albert Krop standing over him. He was in the trench. Looking around, he spotted others glancing his way and around the vicinity, he heard more explosions in the distance, and confused shouting.

"There's a DropShip landing, it's peppering us with Long Toms!" somebody mentioned, and Paul clambered to his feet, peeking over the trench. There, about five kilometers in front of the trenches, there hovered a DropShip, slowly landing as it fired at various positions of the trenches. The emblem on the side of it he was familiar with, it was a Bandit ship, one of the ones he was sure they'd sent as part of the force of fifty thousand mentioned in the briefing. His ears were ringing, his head ached. Krop handed him, or rather pushed into his hands, another helmet, which he placed over his head. Good thing he'd had the other one, or he feared he'd be braindead by now.

Around him, some officer was yelling to ready their weapons, and if it weren't for Krop handing him his rifle, Paul feared he wouldn't have even had one to ready. But finally, in the action, disoriented, he peered over the edge of his trench, and set his rifle on it as the ship was landing and the exit ramps lowering. Today was going to be a long day... 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: The Hour of Action

One thing Paul had noticed when he'd heard the spread of word that the DropShip had landed, was that it was quite quiet in the period following. The gunfire had stopped briefly, save for the rumble of return artillery coming from the base at their backs. He watched the occasional shell whizz overhead, heard the distant pop as it exploded in the distance. Paul had been at first too disoriented to really think much about the fact that the combat wasn't nearly over, but as his senses had cleared with the brief respite, his thought gradually drifted back to that fact. But before he'd had a chance to really think about the meaning of those words, he was dragged from his thoughts again as he leaned against the side of the trench by the shout of an order barked down the line asked for a spotter, and a man from the other side of the trench moved down the line and toward the commanding officers. It only took a minute before they were shouted at again.

"Ready for assault!" it came, and immediately a flurry of disciplined action spread through the men as they took up their arms, cocked their rifles, or began manning the gun slots in the hardened ports of the trenchtop. Paul finally moved down the line himself, focusing on his job. His head still ached and his cheek was swollen, but he wasn't ready to back off from something so silly as a small wound to his pride.

He decided to fall in to the counter assault area waiting at the base of the trench, in between Lehr, whom looked much more serious than he'd ever seen him, and a man they called Merish. He was about to say something to him, as Paul had known him all his life, they'd grown up in the same township, even, but before he could, the gunfire on the front line began again, and he could see stray lasers firing overhead on a few occasions. They made the dim world seem a bit brighter for a split second, and he found the whole experience strange. Could light truly harm somebody that badly?

Paul watched Merish's face for a moment, his friend was an easy read for him. When they could hear the battlecry of their enemies as they hit the front line and the resulting shouting from their allied forces, it twisted into one of brief fear, even if only for a second, but Merish was never one to keep himself from steeling his nerves. He glanced at Lehr and nodded, waiting for the order.

Just a moment later, gunfire broke out from above them on the trench, when those soldiers at the gun ports opened up on the incoming forces. In what seemed like fifteen seconds, they stopped, and immediately the order was given for the assault teams to move out. Paul followed Lehr and Merish up the ladder from the deeper part of the trench, and surged forth in a sprint for a few feet before raising their rifles as they were taught and scanning for a moment. There was no immediate sign of the enemy, save for a few dead Bandits, their strange hodgepodge armor bearing black scars and bullet holes, their emblems stained with blood. Lehr didn't seem to buy it, as he stopped to kick a corpse, making sure it was dead, before he glanced around and lead the way. The other two came up his rear and Paul followed him into a crater, sliding in beside him by his rump until his feet caught the basin.

"Where's Merish?" he asked, and Paul pointed back up the slope.

"He took cover in a smaller one just to the east. He'll be fine," Paul said to Lehr as the wisecracking soldier shuffled up the side of the crater and aimed his weapon over the edge. Paul followed him up and mirrored the action, his lower profile hiding him somewhat better than the taller man. They watched the smoke from the return fire as it swirled up before them, training their rifles, and he risked a glance in Merish's direction. He was doing the same thing, sticking to their basics, and Paul adjusted to form a crossfire with his friend while Lehr watched their immediate front. They could hear activity from up ahead and witnessed a handful of retreating soldiers from the center flank as they pulled back from the enemy. They were shouting and rather frantic, so he turned back to his sights, just in time to catch Merish open fire into the smoke. Soon enough he felt the gust of wind and watched the dust clear quickly enough he could see the figures of the approaching enemy. They ran wildly in assault, some firing to cover their advance, and he wasted no time to catch the fastest of them in his aim, snapping off a burst of five rounds with his automatic, the hail of fire catching the raider in the calf and neck by chance, and Paul felt his heart thump as he watched his first kill drop to the ground. He felt odd, right in that moment, even as another body fell from Merish's fire, slumping over his target's legs. It was, in a sense, incredibly easy for him to die just like that man had. He shook his head and moved his weapon to the left, aiming for the flashes of gunfire he could see erupting in the back line of the enemy. He flicked his gun to single, and aimed just above the lights, to allow for the bullet to drop, and after two cracks from his gun, one of the lights stopped. But just as he had done, so too did the enemy, and two rounds impacted the soil just in front of him, followed by more whizzing in the air nearby, enough he dropped his head and hugged the wall of the crater, his heart racing again. Lehr was similarly suppressed, covering his head with an arm as the dirt fell on them from the return fire, and yet Paul could still hear the sound of Merish's gun going off. The moment he heard it stop, he scrambled; his friend was most likely reloading and needed cover!

Crawling back up to the line, he glanced quickly over, and caught sight of two more targets before dropping back down before being seen. He waited only a second more, then peeked over again while returning his weapon to automatic, firing in their direction indiscriminately. Merish had been taking some fire, but it was silenced by his suppression, as the two men scrambled for cover. One was caught in the hand by a stray bullet and dropped his rifle, but they both fled into a crater further back, and he frowned. They would have to push up, and Lehr mentioned he had enemies still out there too. Merish used the time to run to them, and as he slid into the crater, he seemed excited.

"Brett! Good shooting, you saved my arse," he mentioned, and Paul suddenly caught a hint of his own triumph. He grinned and nodded, gripping his friend's arm. He didn't feel much better about the fact that these were other people he was shooting down, but they were attacking them... It was only defense, right? He ground his teeth to himself, deliberating briefly over the morality of combat as he rubbed at his temple. Lehr moved to the back of the crater and peeked over to see some of their other entrenched forces moving up to support them as well. Two of them set up an autocannon in the crater that Merish had vacated, one of them had a singed helmet and the other was smoking a large cigar, rather quickly. Paul touched his temple again, and shuddered, his eyes widening when he heard a loud sound in the distance; this time it was coming from the enemy's side of the line. There were a few loud thumps, and he immediately thought of the cannons firing again, artillery shells, so he dove for cover and covered his head. But no more sounds came, just more low, loud thumps in the ground he was huddled against.

"Commandooooo!" someone shouted, and he grabbed his rifle in earnest, looking over the horizon again to scan for signs of hostiles.

Even as a light Battlemech, the thing still towered over battlefield, and what was worse, it was fast. It sprinted right at their line, moving much like a human would, running to tackle or to attack, as it opened fire with twin machine guns on one arm. He could see even through the smoke that it displaced the ground as it moved, leaving large lumps he could assume were footprints in the soil. It was the first time he'd ever actually seen a Battlemech fully powered and moving. Before, they simply sat in their bays, awaiting their pilot. But this was much, much different. In fact, it was downright terrifying.

The hulking thing sprayed bullets right into the front line trench, completely eliminating the entire squad stationed there. He heard the other soldiers scrambling about outside the crater, and the autocannon cracked to life as it began firing on the light mech. He chanced another glance as the fast-mover got closer, dodging the autocannon fire and bounding right over the front trench. That was when, thank the heavens, somebody fired a rocket at it.

Paul could only watch, unequipped for such an attack as it were, as the Commando took a missile straight to the chest, stopping it in it's tracks as it wobbled, trying to stay up. The pilot, he was sure, was an inexperienced bandit with a stolen mech, because the thing toppled backward, and slowly fell to the ground, kicking up a dust cloud as it hit the ashy surface.

"MOVE!" shouted the Sergeant behind him, and he hadn't even had time to check whom it was before he was pulled out of the crater by Lehr, who began at a full sprint toward the downed Mech. Paul took off after him.

"Wait!" he shouted, trying to get him to slow, but Lehr removed a grenade from his vest and continued bolting toward it. He pulled the pin and threw it, and Paul slowed slightly once he'd grabbed Lehr's shoulder. The grenade bounced off the Commando's shoulder, and detonated, rather harmlessly, against it's armor from a short distance away. The pilot of the 'mech swiveled it's head toward the sound, and it raised one arm. Paul grabbed his fellow soldier and tried to pull him down, but Lehr, eyes wide, took the full brunt of the Commando's attack, as a green laser blasted him right back in the shoulder, instantaneously burning away cloth and flesh alike. Paul watched in horror as a dumbfounded Lehr's arm was burnt to cinders, down first to the bone, and then that, too, turned to ash. It happened so quickly, he was still pulling the man to the side as he began to scream in agony. Supporting him as best he could, the soldier all but dragged his hobbling comrade back toward their hole, bent low, as quick as he could. Yet another laser shot right by them as he continued to fire upon them, but by now the dust from his own impact had obscured his vision.

Lehr was in a state of shock by the time they got back to their hole, he was sweating profusely, yet cold to the touch, and Paul had to hold his face to keep it from shaking so much.

"Lehr! Lehr, speak to me!" he said as the man stared at him.

"MEDIC!" he shouted in desperation. Two men rushed passed him, armed with another rocket launcher.

"MEDIC!"

Lehr looked down at where his arm used to be, and immediately looked away. He was having problems breathing, everything smelled burnt. Paul noted he had lost a large portion of his torso to the blast, some of the bone hadn't quite been eradicated, and it was sticking out of his cauterized flesh, charred. The medic arrived so suddenly, Paul hadn't even registered it when he was pushed out of the way by the man. He dropped back, and in his own, smaller state of shock, put his hands on the sides of his head.

This was what combat was. He knew it would be like this, but it was still coming to him in waves. His brain had taken in so much so quickly, he wasn't sure what to make of it; had those bandits simply been trying to steal what they had? Why were they even here?

There was a loud explosion in the direction of the Commando, and he could only assume they had dealt with it.

Where was Merish? He poked his head back over the rear edge of the basin of the crater, glancing around at what was going on. More soldiers were advancing from the trench, assisting the others whom had pushed up like they had in dealing with the wounded or resupplying. Then he looked back toward the Commando.

The dust was finally clearing, and there, scattered on the ashy plain, were dozens of bandit bodies. Three of them where lying directly where Lehr's field of fire had been. His own bullets had only taken one life, wounded others. He could see the man from before whom he had shot lying just beyond the ridge where Lehr lie with the medic, bleeding from his neck onto the barren plain.

He ducked as more shots cracked off, from who knows where.

More orders were trickling in from the superiors. One shouted for them to get their things, because they were advancing. Paul thought back to Lehr, even as he moved out, leaving him to the medic as he shouldered his rifle and fell in with the other men who were moving up slowly. He checked himself for any signs of damage, then held his rifle trained on the horizon from the hip, ready to shoulder it if anything came his way.

As the soldiers swept the field, they came across their own fallen, and some of the soldiers stopped to rip dog tags from their commrade's necks. One man who was trying to do just that, wandered too close to the wrong crater. Paul watched as some young soldier from the left flanking platoon was jumped by the soldiers from before, one still bearing the wound to his hand Paul had inflicted on him. Their lad went down, and a few of the other boys opened fire on the hooligans, dropping them into limp sacks of flesh. He grimaced and kept on, looking for any sign of trouble.

The wreckage of the Commando was up ahead, and when they drew closer, somebody opened fire from behind the twisted metal, scattering the Rangers and prompting return fire. Paul raised his weapon and shot at the top of the metal, listening to the delayed sound of his bullets as they traveled to and impacted their mark. When the volley of return fire was finished, everything grew silent, save for the moan of a man wounded further up in the exchange.

Paul slumped down against a concrete barricade, trying to take everything in again. What was he doing here?

...And were victorious once more on the Periphery! The glory of the Federated Commonwealth stands strong when...

If this was really the truth of the Periphery, he wondered how deceived they had been into getting themselves into this. Lehr's arm was gone, probably part of his lung, and maybe even more than that. Paul wasn't even sure which arm it had been. If it had taken a piece of his heart... He could remember Lehr's face, it was ghost white, like he'd witnessed the worst travesty committed in history, like he was beside himself.

What if it had been him?

He was broken out of his trance by the appearance of an ammo-man, who was snapping his fingers in front of Paul's face. He held up a couple clips of ammo and a grenade, grinning and making a face that a delighted shopkeeper about to make a sale might. He checked his mag, only two bullets left. Unclipping it he took the other two and loaded one into the weapon, pocketing the other and ejecting the two shells from the remaining clip, tossing it to the side.

"Thanks," he offered to the other soldier, who helped him to his feet and wandered off. Further in the distance, Paul could see a tank firing on more enemies. They were all across the field still engaging other forces, the volcano in the distance still glowing with lava, illuminating the place in a blood-red background. The ash still blew with the wind but he could make out through it's dancing particles the sight of the main force of the enemy, held back by a handful of tanks. There were hundreds here, swarming, shooting, shouting. The way they attacked was so vicious, he wondered if their lives might depend on it. It was like nothing he'd ever seen. They hardly had much technology, but he could see as he caught up to the others, one of the tanks went up in smoke.

Some soldiers were setting up mortars now as they gained ground, and two began firing in arcs passed the friendly tanks, mostly at random. Whether they had much effect was hard to tell.

They arrived at a tank ditch and Paul, along with Merish and now Krop and six other soldiers all took it up as a makeshift trench, with Paul in the center. To their right was the ridge that the enemy had attacked from, running along for a few meters before it gave way to more cratering from the Long Toms. He could see fragments of a massive boulder which had been smashed by the artillery fire.

Merish, he noticed, was covered in ash, and Krop was laughing at him, even out here in this hell hole. Merish just shook his head, Paul grew curious as to what happened to him. The other soldiers chattered to the ones who were looking out for the enemy, and Paul loaded the two spare bullets he had into a magazine someone had passed around for spares.

"Gentlemen," came a voice from the top of their trench, and Paul glanced to see the Sergeant from the mess hall looming over them. His fatigues read "Kachinsky", he finally noted, and he bore the bars of his rank on his left shoulder.

"It only gets harder from here. Keep your heads down, and don't do anything stupid, think before you act. Remember, these are psychos we're dealin' with, right? They won't hesitate to kill you."

A couple of the soldiers gulped, and Paul remembered the words he'd said before. They'd do fine. But he knew not all of them were going to make it out of this alive. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: The Sea of Stars

Somewhere in the dank metal a sound churned, spewing out between the pipes in the form of a low whine of releasing air, the mechanic tending the machine lifted his head to regard the direction from whence it came. A sudden bang and the resulting pings of metal-on-metal let him knew yet another of the pressure valves of the coolant system had burst. That was the third one in two days!

"Better get on it, Sander, before the reactor melts down," came a sarcastic voice from behind, and the man, Sander, spun on his heel and gave a salute. It was the lead mechanic, and the star in the rank insignia on his jacket denoted as much. The bitter old technician, Fyura, lifted a thick hand and pointed toward the pipe which was now letting out a jet of steam.

"Move it, freebirth! Now!" he shouted, and Sander scooted passed him in the narrow passage, taking his spanner and a pipe segment with him.

Life wasn't the best aboard the Harmonious Shriek wasn't exactly pleasant for Sander, he'd much more enjoyed the safety and relative quiet of his homeworld. But now, after the Council had decided that they were to invade the Inner Sphere, the Clan mechanic, a freebirth, had been forced into duty to honor Sudeten and the Khan.

He pulled the broken pipe section free after loosing it with his wrench, and proceeded to replace it under the scrutiny of his commanding officer. Once that was finished, he was ordered to the main deck to assist with repairs there, and, as he was trying to avoid further interaction with Fyura, he did so post haste. The lift, after a brief wait, took him through the layers of the Dropship to the main deck where the Battlemechs were housed, their gleaming metal catching the shine of his eyes in the dimly lit bay as he stepped from the lift access. For a moment, he admired the first one he came across, a large, heavy 'mech, everyone in the Clan knew what one looked like; it was a Timber Wolf, only this one had a large hole through one of it's shoulder-mounted missile racks, and sparks flew from the torch wielded by the mechanic working on it.

It took a good five minutes to cross the length of the deck to the other side, and Sander was flanked by Battlemechs the whole way, until he reached the small office reserved for the operations manager overseeing the productivity of the repair facilities. It was here he would need to inquire more on his assignment, and he saluted the man in greeting when he stepped into the doorway of the room.

"What's this then?" the manager asked, rolling his shoulders.

"Technician Sander reporting, sir," the freebirth said, and watched as the stocky man reached over to grab his data pad. He touched at the screen a couple times, then nodded slowly and glanced between Sander and the device.

"Says here, Bay Seven-B, a KFX-C, designation 0-1A63-C. Mechanical failure of right arm actuator due to explosive ordinance," he rattled off, and Sander nodded to show he'd understood before he turned to leave only after thanking the other man. It took another couple of minutes to back-track his way down the long set of bays, until he reached bay Seven-B. Inside he found the light 'mech, covered in bullet holes and coated with the ash left over from missile explosions on it's right side. It looked as if the actuator on it's elbow indeed had seen better days. He stopped to pick up a bag of tools from the workbench at the front of the bay, and headed inside, toward the ladder he would use to elevate himself to the arm of the Battlemech.

Voices in the bay, however, alerted him to the presence of two pilots, one of which he could only assume was the pilot of the KFX he now stood at the feet of.

"It was the least honorable battle I've ever fought," said the pilot to his star mate, whom shook his head slowly.

"The freebirths were running for their lives, hiding behind women and children because they thought we'd have a qualm killing them. Instead, we just vaporized the whole lot. Best not to have them getting in the way of the invasion... But the rest ran, like scared puppies with their tails between their legs, all the way to Barcelona. Star Captain Alden mentioned that we were going to follow them- right into the Inner Sphere."

By now, Sander had climbed up to the arm of the KFX, and the sound of sparks from his torch filled the bay. He had only been at work a few minutes when the pilot shouted up at him over the noise.

"Hey! Freebirth! Don't ruin my 'mech or it'll be your head over the bandits' this time. Those bloody ******** are just as bad you vermin when it comes to the invasion, and don't you forget it!"

He bit back the overwhelming urge to say something, and the even larger urge to sabotage this man's machine. Ultimately, he knew, that one day... One day, even the trueborn warriors would respect him. He didn't know how, he didn't know when, but it would happen. Sander was far too determined for it not to. He was a mechwarrior by blood, even if his blood wasn't that of those born in the sibkos.

For a moment, he stopped, looked up to the cockpit of the Kitfox, and pondered how life might be different for him if he'd been allowed a Trial of Position. Maybe it would've been him yelling at the tech not to screw it up? Or maybe he still would've failed, like they all assumed he would, because of his inferior birth?

Whatever the case, Sander allowed his pride to sink just enough to complete his work. The invasion was scheduled to begin tomorrow. His mind wandered as he worked and, after a time, he caught himself looking out the window at the back of the bay, at the stars which held his destiny. Somewhere out there, there was a world yet undiscovered by him, and on that world, lie his fate.

The burning sensation as he overheated his protective glove made him yelp and focus back on his work, he had to finish soon... 


End file.
